In the afternoon of a certain summer's day, after Pearl grew big enough to run about, she amused herself with gathering handfuls of wild-flowers, and flinging them, one by one, at her mother's bosom; dancing up and down, like a little elf, whenever she hit the scarlet letter. Hester's first motion had been to cover her bosom with her clasped hands. But, whether from pride or resignation, or a feeling that her penance might best be wrought out by this unutterable pain, she resisted the impulse, and sat erect, pale as death, looking sadly into little Pearl's wild eyes. Still came the battery of flowers, almost invariably hitting the mark, and covering the mother's breast with hurts for which she could find no balm in this world, nor knew how to seek it in another. At last, her shot being all expended, the child stood still and gazed at Hester, with that little laughing image of a fiend peeping out- or, whether it peeped or no, her mother so imagined it- from the unsearchable abyss of her black eyes.
一个夏日的午后，那时珠儿已经长大，能够到处跑了。孩子采集了一把野花自己玩着，她把野花一朵接一朵地掷到母亲胸口上；每当花朵打中红字，她就象个小精灵似的蹦蹦跳跳。海丝特的第一个动作就是想用合着的双手来捂住胸膛。可是，不知是出于自尊自豪还是出于容忍顺从，抑或是感到她只有靠这种难言的痛苦才能最好地完成自己赎罪的苦行，她压抑下了这一冲动，坐得挺挺的，脸色变得死一般地苍白，只是伤心地盯着珠儿的狂野的眼睛。此时，花朵仍接二连三地抛来，几乎每一下都未中那标记，使母亲曲胸口布满伤痛，不但在这个世界上她找不到止痛药膏，就是在另一个世界上，她也不知道如何去找这种灵丹妙药。终于，孩子的弹药全都耗尽了，她一动不动地站在那里瞪着海丝特，从她那深不可测的黑眼睛中，那小小的笑眯眯的魔鬼形象又在探出头来望着她了——或者，根本没那么国事，只是她母亲这么想象罢了。

"Child, what art thou?" cried the mother.
“孩子，你到底是个什么呀？”母亲叫着。

"Oh, I am your little Pearl!" answered the child.
“噢，我是你的小珠儿！”孩子回答。

But, while she said it, Pearl laughed, and began to dance up and down, with the humorsome gesticulation of a little imp, whose next freak might be to fly up the chimney.
珠儿边说边放声笑着，并且用小妖精的那种调皮样子蹦蹦跳跳着，她的下一步想入非非的行动可能是从烟囱中飞出去。

"Art thou my child, in very truth?" asked Hester.
“你真一点不假是我的孩子吗？”海丝特问。

Nor did she put the question altogether idly, but, for the moment, with a portion of genuine earnestness; for, such was Pearl's wonderful intelligence, that her mother half doubted whether she were not acquainted with the secret spell of her existence, and might not now reveal herself.
她提出这样一个问题绝不是漫不经心的，就当时而论，她确实带着几分诚心诚意；因为珠儿这么鬼精鬼灵的，她母亲吃不大准，她未必还不清楚自己的身世之谜，现在只不过还不打算亲口说出来。

"Yes; I am little Pearl!" repeated the child, continuing her antics.
“是啊！我是小珠儿！”孩子又说了一遍，同时继续着她的调皮动作。

"Thou art not my child! Thou art no Pearl of mine!" said the mother, half playfully; for it was often the case that a sportive impulse came over her, in the midst of her deepest suffering. "Tell me, then, what thou art, and who sent thee hither?"
“你不是我的孩子！你不是我的珠儿！”母亲半开玩笑地说；因为就在她最为痛苦的时候，往往会涌来一阵寻开心的冲动。“那就告诉我吧，你是什么？是推把你打发到这儿来的？”